I read novels, books and prose that are strikingly brilliant, beautiful,
and real. Real. Are they really? Maybe it's that fact that they are
disturbing and that those things could happen in real life and the authors
usually describe the beautifully messy events in tantalizing, dark, and
poetic prose.

But come to think of it, I can never have those lives. Like Esther
Greenwood from 'The Bell Jar' by the late Sylvia Plath. I mean, I would
never end up that depressed and I would never end up like that in New York
or in a mental asylum. My life is too sheltered.

Yet in all this safety I feel so trapped. Does it sound as if I want to
experience tragedy? Not really. I want to experience freedom and through
this freedom tragedy may come my way.

I highlight all my 'y's' and click on the 'delete' button. I go back to
bed.

It is slightly warmer upstairs now. My father opened the windows in the
middle floor to make it cooler. The heat is irregular this summer for where
I come from. 35 degrees and above. We don't bother buying and air-
conditioner since we always thought we'd never need it. What's two months
out of a whole year anyway?

I curl up in my blankets feeling hotter than ever. I use the same blankets
throughout the whole year. Including winter. I can't sleep without a
blanket. I've gotten used to it.

A little bit of sunlight flows into my room due to the blinds and I hear a
car pass by.

I try to sleep for what seems like an hour. Again, I can't.

So I give up on something once again. I turn on my computer and write
something. Anything, I can come up with. My younger sister comes downstairs
asking where our parents have gone. I tell her they went off to church.

Then, without even reading over what I've written so far I highlight
everything and delete it. I don't even feel bad about it. I've never
deleted something just like that. I feel slightly proud of myself.

I phone my friend Judacia. She sounds like her usual self. Somehow when she
talks to me on the phone (usually) I feel as though I am no different from
anybody. I feel that in her life, I should be. I knew and she knew I was
different from her other friends. My mother says that she is threatened by
me and even jealous. I find this true at times. But it is normal for
Judacia to be jealous. She's too competitive. She's good at hiding her
darkness, though. Unlike the other friends I used to have. Their deceit was
obvious. But deep in our hearts (probably not even that deep).Judacia loves
me and I love her. She just doesn't love me as much as I love her.

"Hey." I say.

"Oh, hi" She replies.

"Anything new?" I ask her. I know the answer.

"Nnnnno." She says this as though her 'n' in extended.

"I just got an e-mail from my best friend." I tell her. Like she would
care, though.

"We should go check on Lysandra some time. She's been sick lately." I tell
her.

"Yeah." She replies.

Later that afternoon we walk over to Lysandra's house with orange juice and
muffins. For some strange reason we don't talk like we usually do. We talk
like we do on the phone. With me doing most of the talking and Judacia
barely listening. Today, there is no chemistry. But I know that on another
day there will be. Like, tomorrow.

We drop of the food with Lysandra who seems to not want us around today.

Judacia walks me back home and we say our goodbyes.

I go back up to my room and lie there. Feeling lonely. Feeling alone. At
least with those characters in those books something happens to them.
Nothing happens to me.

I look at a ripped out picture from a of a painting. I've forgotten the
artist's name and the full name of the painting. It was called, King
somethingsomething and the Beggar Maid. The story of the painting is that
the king was searching far and wide for love and he finally found it in a
beggar maid.

That's kinda sad. Not only is she a maid but a beggar. The story is
supposed to be happy but why does the beggar maid look lonely? She sits on
this stair-like 'throne' and he sits one level lower than her. He gazes at
her adoringly. Yet she gazes ahead at the viewer. She looks lonely.

Does she love him too?

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